


Vitruvian Man

by thekid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Bad Decisions, Bad Parenting, Bad Sex, Blood, Don't Read This, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Organs, Porn, Virgin Sherlock, haha - Freeform, helll yehhhh, why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekid/pseuds/thekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, dead bodies in the morgue just aren't good at being alive. It's up to ace detective Sherlock Holmes to find other ways to observe live naked bodies. But his friend Captain John Watson might not be too happy with his methods! In this thrilling saga, John catches Sherlock in the act of hiring a hooker to study his vital signs! What a wacky couple!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Turn your head that way.”

Glance of discomfort, one swallow, Adams apple bobbing up and down. Turning of the head, muscles and tendons stretching to their perfect conclusion, I know the names of all of them.

I pace around it, him. If he were to describe the situation he might idiotically label the formation as that of a “lion stalking his prey”. A rather boring and overused phrase, which would be inaccurate on many accounts, considering the simile is a complete misrepresentation of the current events, and it is the lionesses rather than the lions that stalk prey. The male lions never hunt. Obviously.

I prefer dead bodies, but purely on the basis that they refuse to perform the monotonous tasks that live bodies constantly trouble to. Like speaking when they don’t know and never will have any meaningful information to convey. Like breathing and thinking, which I can palpably sense him doing as he stands in the middle of room, arms and legs spread like the Vitruvian man.

Certainly da Vinci was also a genius. He was a painter, cannot remember any of his paintings. Surely they were rather irrelevant. But his medical journals and technical musings I remember in great detail. Anyone can be an artist, art and creativity are so subjective.

He has a pleasing amount of skin, muscle, and fat ratio for my purposes. His diet seems to be almost sufficient. Clients seem to be relatively easy to come by, however not enough for him to turn down a request.

I understand the desire behind paying for sex. Humans deluded into believing that sex is a “basic” human need, when eating rarely qualifies. They don’t want the effort, the investment into finding a partner. I understand it although the idea disgusts me. I’m forced to deal with ordinary people as much as it is. The Woman and Moriarty somehow seemed to fall into this desire, but by choice. Could they overcome their disgust of ordinary people? Perhaps they weren’t as sickened by them? Jealousy at their ability to choose to understand eliminate it stop it. This is why I won. This is how I outsmarted all of them.

Quick contraction of the muscles in his shoulders, fascinating. Jealousy never allowed you anywhere. Such juvenile feelings.

Mother. She would be disappointed.

He’s scared. He’s restless. Sex does not scare him. Sex is understandable, predictable. The unknown is frightening. The raw nakedness embarrasses him, although it’s undressed for strangers countless times. Nobody ever looks at its body anyway, not before, when their brains are clouded with pheromones and other disorienting chemicals.  
It doesn’t matter; I’m paying him all the same.

Movement, life coursing through its flesh. This is why I need him, it. Simultaneously volumes of information more and less than an inanimate corpse.

Arousal would be an interesting thing to study. It sounds a bit too messy for me, and I’ve been rather loaf to bring it about it any of my previous models. The idea, for some reason, repels me. He isn’t attracted to me. Now, for obvious reasons, but also not even during the time between him observing my face and me speaking. Also heterosexual, despite his trade. Possible he thinks about the whole matter decently logically, although doubtful. Friction is friction, and while I understand the biological inclination of reproduction, it was certainly an attestment to mankind’s ability to think logically that one body could attract and another could repel in such restricting ways.

It would be easy though. A quick switch of my movements. A smile.

Perhaps.

Its veins interest me far more. I would love to see one burst, blood spreading like ink on wet paper. Rich red underneath a thin flake of flesh. His pupils dilating to extreme measures. The warmth of it all, so unlike bodies in the morgue.

I want to cut it open. Observe the organs, struggling to bring life to the body. It would be difficult to observe very carefully, there would be so much blood. Perhaps I could go in with a liquid vacuum. A beating heart, still thrumming. I’ve never seen one before, only in pictures and videos.

There would be no way he would agree to that, unfortunately. No desire to die, no obvious masochist tendencies either. Pity.

But maybe something less extreme. Surely a cut. A slice. I’ve done plenty on myself, I know how deep would be too deep.

I dislike having to vocalize my needs. It would be so much more convenient if people knew.

“I assume you wouldn’t be opposed to an opportunity for more pay?”

He jumps at that and for a second doesn’t turn his head, but eventually swivels around. I am ready for him. Have been for what seems like ages, already having formed a dark smile on my face. Oh, I was wrong. My subject may be more partial to pain than I thought.

He swallows, obviously not liking the sound of that. His body betrays him though, thinking ahead of his mind.  
“Are you going to fuck me or not?” he asks hoarsely, yet not in an aroused way. He’s scared, yet my face and body language seemed to be working for me. I hated to admit though that if I hadn’t been able to look at him while I questioned him, I would believe my charm to be failing. Good thing he was right here in front of me, because my charm always works. Always.

Whatever I wanted. Whatever I needed I could always get. And now I want this. I want to observe, to learn, to see. I want it now.

Sweat, corner of forehead. Palms twitching too, also sweaty. His toes shift ever so slightly as if he is about to lose balance, but his body is surely stable. His nipples are beginning to protrude, but his penis is flaccid still.

“Perhaps,” I say with no true conviction. Of course it works anyway.

“If,” I say, “you do something for me.”

Quick breath in, furrowed brow. More fear disguised as anger, indignation.

“What are you playing at? You paid me for a shag not for…this.”

He sneered yet throughout the whole exchange had not lowered his arms or significantly altered his spread position.

“You get off on this, yeah?” He gave a dirty smile, “Does this make you _hot?_ ” He stretched out the last word mockingly.

I want to snap at him in indignation. I am above him, how dare he accuse me of his own weaknesses. But that would break the façade. Instead I put my frustration into running towards him and pushing him into the nearest wall by his wrists.

He gasps. He assumes it does. It also makes him hot.

Perfectly simple.

I’m excited, but not even remotely sexually. I had not definitely planned to do this tonight, judging my willingness at 26% percent. But I had prepared to the point of the knife in my trouser pocket, which is stretched tight across my leg due to my fitted trousers. Anyway the unexpected had happened, as it rarely did and I had my hands clasped around his wrists, feeling the taunt pulsing veins. I can no longer see his face I’m too captured by the movements of his body.  
He’s half hard already, not surprising though. He wants me to have sex with him, which of course I won’t. Such an unattractive idea.

I drop one of his wrists and flip out the knife in one fluid motion. I bring it to his thigh.

“Three hundred pounds.” I utter clearly. “Three hundred pounds for one cut.” My eyes stare into his calculatingly.  
He stops writhing. His mouth opens slightly. Damn, I’ve gotten caught up, such an obvious mistake I curse myself. A calibrating process runs through my head before two seconds have gone by and I employ a great deal of strength into putting my lips on his. I force my tongue in and calculate his every reaction to figure out what will bring him optimal pleasure. He raises his free hand in the direction of my upper leg and my body reacts to press my knife gently into his upper arm before I can think about it. The idea of him touching me is unappealing. And even an idiot like him might think twice after feeling my obvious lack of an erection.

I’m relieved that my mistake seems to excite him. While I’m not sure that I wanted this reaction, I can’t complain. After all I had been meaning to study arousal in the first place. I unattach my mouth from his. He’s out of breath, far more than I am, although the physical exertion has inevitably caused a slight increase in my own breathing. I recognize he won’t be able to speak for another six seconds so to prevent myself from growing bored I observe his erection. He’s completely shaved as fashion now seems to dictate. The head is notably redder than the average penis. Without looking up from it, I intend to provoke a reaction by tracing his nipple with the tip of my knife. They aren’t particularly sensitive, but I can tell he is particularly attracted by the idea of the knife.

I watch his erection bob slightly up and fall back down, but remains more erect at the contact.  
He finally breathes out an ok. I will have plenty of time to observe this area after I’ve cut him. I hope absentmindedly he doesn’t move around too much, but I’ve gone too far to give up even if he is a poor model. Perhaps I’ll need to look around for a subject who won’t be so inclined to twitch at the thought of pain.

He’s breathing so loud and it’s annoying. I tune him out and zero in on the exact square area where I will be making the incision. I release his other arm and kneel down in one swift drop. I grab the flesh and examine it closely. It’s important to observe everything before I begin the process. All I can see and hear is the knife entering the skin. Skin is such a unique substance and it takes a blade like no other. A blossoming of red begins to pour out and it is truly breathtaking. I begin to slide it left when I suddenly feel a rough hand on my shoulder pulling me back.

“Sherlock what the fuck?” John is in front of me. He’s yelling at me. He pushed me onto the ground. The knife is in my hand. It’s dripping with blood but not a substantial amount. He’s home early. The man is leaning against the wall. A single stream of blood is making its way down his thigh, clinging to hairs on its way down. Not a deep cut at all. Not yet.

John. His face red. His eyes piercing into me. Trying to pierce my eyes. I’m looking at the rest of his face. He stands. Taller than me on the floor. His back towards the man. Protective. Protective of me? No.

Protective of him.

“What are you doing? _What are you doing, Sherlock?_ ”

Before I know it my body has contorted into a defensive position on the floor. I had been flinching. I was lost for words.

“John-"

“ _What were you going to do?_ ”

“John I wasn’t going to do anything! It’s for an experiment!”

“ _Who is this?_ ” He screams. Before I knew it I had flinched again.

“A prostitute.” I answer quickly. I had begun to recover, though fear and strangely a sense of embarrassment was beginning to grow.

Had John seen the man’s erection while I was working on him? Wasn’t it obvious it was consensual? I may have been a liar, but if I had really intended on murdering someone, there wasn’t even a chance John would find out.  
John exhales in shock. His hands ball into fists at his side.

“A…” he looks down, then looks up, then shakes his head to the side, then looks into my eyes but I can’t recognize his emotion. He then turns to stare at the man, who withers against the wall at the sight of John’s face.

John looks up to the ceiling and clears his throat. He steps his planted feet a bit closer together so he looks less ready to attack something. When he looks down his face is sternly collected.

“Do you need medical attention?” he asks the man clearly.

He clears his throat and shakes his head rapidly.

“Then put your clothes on.” John walks further into the room and crosses his arms.

The man immediately begins sliding his clothes on in a shaky manner. There is a moment of silence and rustling before John asks, “How much did he agree to pay you.”

“F-five hundred total.” He pauses for a moment in gathering his clothes but quickly resumes shucking them on as quickly as possible.

John turns his icy glare onto me.

“Get the money,” he clips neutrally. I would rather have him snarl.

I get up as fluidly as possible; my face is hot for some reason. It’s a fast process of striding over to where my coat is hanging and plucking the wallet out of its pocket. I take out the five papers and step over to where the man is now jabbing his feet into his shoes. I hold it out to him, hoping his hands don’t brush over my fingers. I sneer down at him. He doesn’t even notice, too afraid and eager to leave. He grabs the money and his coat within seconds of each other, and then sprints out the door without closing it.

There is a short moment of stillness before John purposefully turns and methodically shuts it. I want to assume a more unapologetic position, but I can’t move.

He faces me.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” He seems hurt. I don’t understand.

“I was merely gathering data, John. You’re upset.”

“Of course I’m upset!” he ran a hand through his hair.

“You bring a prostitute into our home, you _hire_ a prostitute, and you…what… _cut him open?_ ” He breathed in looking at me with the same hurt expression. Scared? No, he wasn’t scared. What was he?

“Have you done this before? How long have you been doing this?”

So like John to assume without gathering all the facts.

“Oh calm down, John, this was the first instance.”

“ _That doesn’t make it right!”_ I’m able to recognize anger in his face now, but the strange hurt expression is still there.  
“I wasn’t doing anything that he was...objecting to…” I shoot back.

John is shaking his head, frustrated.

“Sherlock, you could make people ask you to kill them if you wanted to.”

I haven’t tested that theory. Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to be John’s point.

“You can’t do this. It’s not good.” I watch him square his jaw.

“Why?”

“Because you’re hurting people. And I won’t allow you to do that.”

“But he obviously wanted it! John, you must have seen the evidence-“

“Sherlock, no! I told you you’ve got this…you’re good at making people do things they don’t really want to do."

“What do you mean?”

John seems to be struggling.

“You can’t…I mean…they might think they want it then, you might make them think they want it, people I mean, but they really don’t…actually want it.”

I pause. This was something to consider.

“Have you personally experienced this? Have I manipulated you to do things you haven’t wanted to?”

John clears his throat.

“No actually. I mean, you do sometimes twist my arm to do some things, but…no. Not anything I’m truthfully really averse to doing.

“Hm.” I offer, looking down and frowning. I am both disappointed and excited. Dissapointed that if I needed to, I wouldn’t be able to make John follow orders. Obviously beneficial. Yet relieved that all of his reactions have been true. Why does this please me? Illogical. Unsure, need more data.

“I’ve merely been gathering data. What I can’t observe at the morgue, I must learn from live bodies.” I state defensively.

“What could you possibly observe from cutting a bloke’s leg open?” he barks. I look at him abashed.

“Right, I wasn’t thinking-" he says.

“You rarely are.” I attempt humour.

“ _Would you just_ …” I register my lower left eye twitching. He sighs and I watch his hand rise to rub at his face but he stops it, suspending it in midair before swiping it back down and flexing his fingers out.

“You can’t just bring people like that into the flat and…”

“Fine, I won’t hurt them. Anybody I bring in, I promise from now on.” That should be the end of that. I could find other ways to experiment that, although were more time demanding, would be less expensive. Anyway I desperately need time to think about everything that had just happened.

“Sherlock, you git, it’s not just that! Don’t bring them here, period.”

“What?” I scoff, already thinking of ways around it.

“And whatever you’re thinking, you can’t do that either.”

“You’re being absurd!” I’m sneering at him.

“It’s dangerous and-“ I almost laugh. I narrow my eyes at him.

“Dangerous?” I spit at him sourly.

I expect him to be taken shocked and back off. His face hardens. Familiar yet strange.

“I know you, Sherlock,” he annunciates. No venom in his voice. “I know there are some things you can’t stop yourself from.”

Outrage. I’ve never been more furious with him, yet I can’t articulate reasonably why. Bites the side of his cheek. Still staring. I want to strike him with all of his imperfections. I want to see him in the wrong. I want him to tell me I’m brilliant. I want him to look at me not how he’s looking at me now. Make it stop. But more than anything I want to know why I’m so infuriated in the first place.

The only thing I can spit out is a harsh “fine” before I turn and disappear into my room.

 

 

 

 

It’s eleven thirty in the morning when John enters my room. He’s wearing a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, so has changed and slept since yesterday unlike me. I can’t see him because I’m lying down facing away from the door. Hasn’t had breakfast. Will need to see him before I draw more conclusions. Refuse to turn.

“Sherlock?”

I don’t move.

“Sherlock, come on you’re being irrational.”

Of course I know that, I’ve just spent the past eighteen hours analyzing that.

He sighs and tentatively steps into my room. I feel the bed compress as he sits on the opposite end. It’s strange.  
A few seconds of silence. He sighs.

“Jesus Sherlock, you know I…” He sighs again.

I don’t have anything to say.

“Why do you even think it’s a good idea to bring these people in? The, you know…”

Of course I know how absurd to assume otherwise. I roll my shoulder closer to my chest.

“Is it-erm-“ Hesitant, something’s not right. His tone isn’t appropriate.

“-sexual? For you?”

He’s being gentle. He’s treating me like a patient. He’s trying so hard he thinks it might literally break me. It’s disgusting. I tense my shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” My face reddens in anger and my first thought is to be glad that John can’t see and it isn’t until my second thought that I question the reaction in the first place. I don’t care if John sees, why would that matter. I shift myself up quickly so that my chest is rotated to him.

“Why would something so ordinary interest me? Your body is your weakness, not mine. Isn’t it absolutely obvious that I was observing? Normal people are all the same. They see but they don’t observe.”

His face. His lips twitching. A quick and unbearably faded intake of breath.

“Right.”

A silence. He shifts his legs closer together.

“I, uh, just don’t want you doing stuff like that. You can’t go around hurting other people, it’s too…much for me. I mean, of course, not that I don’t trust you.” He says the last phrase a bit louder than the rest.

“And the… visits are fine. Just, I mean, get someone safe? You know, not just someone off the streets…and if they’re okay with the other stuff that’s fine. You’re both consenting adults or some shite, whatever it is people do nowadays.” He looks to the side sternly and nods his head. His fingers flex out.

“So, is that okay?” He looks me full in the face. He was obviously overeacting during the original situation, but John is stubborn. And right now he seemed to be giving up too easy. Quirk of left thumb. Small cut on his chin from shaving. Brows are interestingly creased.

“It’ll do.” I say.

“Alright. Great, yeah.” He gets to his feet in a confident motion.

“I’m going to run some errands, as usual.” He started toward the door. “Get the milk as usual; you need anything? Or are you going out later…” He says normally and gruffly but there’s a hint of gentleness in his voice that I don’t think even he can trace.

I lean back to stare at the ceiling and steeple my fingers.

“No I’ll be staying in I have to work on an experiment,” I pause, but not for too long to add “involving the parts in the fridge; _don’t touch them_.”

There’s a silence. Could he be smiling?

“Alright then.” Smiling.

He leaves. I get up and head toward the kitchen. I’m not too distracted and experimenting will certainly help me think.

 

 

 

 

He got home early and fixed a meal. The experience is still strange to me, having someone cook for you and seeing them do it. He navigates around the kitchen gracefully, avoiding all of the overhanging experimental related equipment that I’d observed others always bump into. Somehow it impressed me. The way his body moves, it is the epitome of fluid for split seconds here and there, however not many would probably describe it as such with John’s stocky body. His movement, just his movement amazes me. He grabs something off a decently high shelf shifting his weight around to make himself appear significantly less short. Perhaps a habit he’d cultured and developed due to his self consciousness about his height.

Want to tell him about this. He would think it’s brilliant. But perhaps this was something that John didn’t want to discuss? I look at my tea.

He brings food over. It’s spaghetti, as I’ve known, but to make my displeasure known to him I frown a bit.  
He pretends to ignore it and sits down in his chair, starting to ravenously dig in. John is truthfully hungry.  
Pick up my fork. Push a strand. Think of ways to potentially create chemical reactions with starches.

“How was your day?” I say.

John looks at me, pasta in his mouth and starts laughing. I didn’t see what was so funny. Wipes his mouth. Tongue flicks out and back in.

“My day?” he says with a wry smile.

Had he gone mad?

“Yes.”

He giggles again.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Everything is fine.”

It’s true. At least for him. No trace of a lie.

“Okay then.” I say tilting my head back. He takes another bite.

“I’ve already reached an adequate solution, so there should be no more reason for you to complain.”

He squirms a bit but rolls his eyes.

“Alright, Sherlock.”

“It satisfies all of your previous stated requirements and it involves you.”

He chews and swallows harshly. “What?”

“Oh for God’s sakes John, you’ll be my model!” Wasn’t it obvious?

“No I thought that might be-but no, wait Sherlock. Wait, no!”

“What do you mean? You’re requirements were that I attain someone safe, and you implied someone regular. You made it a requirement that the individual was not ‘from the streets’. And you said you trusted me, which fulfills your requirement of me obtaining a ‘consenting adult’.”

“I-no Sherlock! That’s not what I meant. Just because I trust you doesn’t mean that I want to get my leg cut open or be fucking forced against a wall naked and-“ he stops and clenches his jaw.

“But, of course you don’t understand! John I won’t be doing any of those things, I’ll be looking the parts of your body from a scientific standpoint, obviously.”

“Well that didn’t seem to be what you were doing with whoever that was.”

I redden, this time not with anger.

“Those were unusual circumstances, I wanted to study a live wound and in order to convince him certain steps were necessary.”

John puts his head in his hands.

“God, Sherlock.”

“It won’t happen again!” I snap quickly.

There’s a silence and I can hear a lot of things and one is John’s breathing and none are John’s voice.

“Alright. But only to keep you from hurting other people. I know you so it’s…I know how to deal with it.”

He picks up his fork again and starts eating.

The sun is starting to go down. I sit and watch him until he finishes. He scoffs at me, assumes I’m pleased with myself.  
I am, but much less than I thought I would be.

He finally finishes.

“Alright, let’s do it.” I hop up and expect him to follow.

“Wait, now?” John’s brow furrows.

I sigh. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t have to be immediately. There are experiments I need to attend to.” My eyes begin to wander over to them.

“No.”

I’m shocked. I whip my head back.

“If I don’t do it now-let’s just do it, okay? Then I can do it later too-if you want. I mean, I’d really prefer it’d just be this once, but…”

He stands up.

“Yeah let’s just do this.”

“Very well.” I stride over to the living room, bent on retrieving my magnifier in my coat pocket. When I turn back from the coat rack John is standing in the middle of the room looking down towards the floor. In the least seductive and shy way possible he roughly strips himself. Every item he removes he throws to the side in a pile by the couch. When he’s completely naked he stands, legs and arms apart, and looks up at me. It’s a completely stoic face. The face of a soldier.

I’ve been standing still watching him. Fascinating. I stride over to him quickly and stare intently at his face as he unabashedly stares back. Then I move to his neck, losing myself by the time I reach his torso. I’ve begun circling slowly around him.

He is amazing.

How the muscles on his back bunch, with his arms just slightly spread. As he stands he begins to rotate his palms up. The rough skin details absolutely everything. I know much of it already. His breathing is incredibly steady, steadier than anyone before him. He is a warrior, a prize. He’s the man with no fear. He’s beautiful. He’s mine.

I move to his stomach, his wrists, his genitals, his calves, his heels. They all tell so much. I could spend hours cataloguing the scars on his body.

I realize that I’m only observing particulars about John, while I’m supposed to be observing his body.

I am, but so very differently.

He’s closed his eyes. He doesn’t see, doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what information I’m gathering.

I’m behind him when I walk toward him and graze two fingers over his neck. He jumps slightly, but he heard me coming. I trace down observing the clavicle. My fingers travel until they’re grazing the underside of his arm. I apply slight pressure and he takes the hint, raising his arm a bit higher. I grab his wrist and pull his arm watching the bone of his elbow morph flat into his skin. I press my thumbs into the palm of his hand and watch it contract exposing the tendons there.

My movements become less sure along his body. He might sense something is wrong. I try to regain the sureness but I can’t concentrate. He opens his eyes and the surprise of it helps me maintain a cool expression. I walk around to his chest. He puts his hands behind his back. I put mine on his shoulders, feeling his upper pectorals with four fingers on each side. But I suddenly need to move aside and hope desperately he doesn’t notice.

His breathing continues at the same rate as usual. His eyes are closed again. I need to stop now. I don’t know how. My hands are no longer touching him. I’m looking at the small of his back. My fingers twitch. I’m confused and disgusted with myself. Anybody but John. I’d known it all along, it was always hovering on the edge of existence. If it had been anyone but John I could have simply used my charm and it would have been over within the hour. This had happened before, but I could always convince myself that it was just coincidence. It had always occurred randomly before, so it was no different now.

I stepped to the side slightly so John wouldn’t think I was just standing still in one place. I swallowed once but timed it with the sound of my foot hitting the carpet, so it wasn’t deafening. I unconsciously notice my hands trying to move somewhere, anywhere but I mustn’t make noise for some unknown reason.

It’s so hard.

I can only remember two times when I felt this so intensely.

I need to move now. But I can’t. I can’t face John’s front on the off chance his eyes have opened.

I stand to his side. His eyes are closed. For a split second I’m thankful. I need to stop this now. But I don’t want to. I just need to find a way to continue to observe him without him noticing. Then after an appropriate amount of time go to my room and furiously masturbate. The guilt was already seeping in.

His eyes open.

But he’s staring forward. He can’t see me in detail.

I stay rooted.

I watch his eyebrows furrow. He flicks his eyes toward me uncertainly.

They widen.

I let out a foolish whisp of a breath and cover it up with my dressing gown. I’m on fire. My face grows red. I look down cursing to myself and biting my lip to keep me from coughing at how weak my legs feel. I’m absolutely pathetic. My own body betrays me.

My body forces my head to look up once more, against everything my mind says. I need to see his face. Need to see the betrayal in his eyes, the revulsion.

His head is turned away. He looks at the floor to his other side. His fists are clenched. I plan on walking straight to my room without saying another word.

But I watch as his penis begins to harden.

The palms of my hands still clutching my dressing gown go to rub my erection desperately. The shame feels good.  
He stands there, feet spread, arms behind his back twisting to display an appealing amount of muscle and fat. I can see his neck muscles stretching as well as the back of his jawbone.

Am I supposed to suck him? Would he want that? Can I touch him?

I move a step closer to him hesitantly. My breath hitches and his muscles contract a bit. His penis twitches. He isn’t as nearly hard as me, but perhaps I can convince myself that his body requires time to adapt to stimuli. I take each corresponding step faster and faster, until my fingers are hovering at his hipbone. He turns his head to stare at me again.

His face. Still that of a soldier. Something else. Something I’ve seen there before.

My fingers grab his hip and I trace my thumb over the bone. His body doesn’t react to it besides his Adam’s apple bobbing down once.

My fingers dig deeper into his skin. Unintentional. Strange. Wrong. I’m not an animal. I’m not one of them.

I tower over him. He stares at my face, but I’m not looking there. I can’t bear. I look down at my own feet and end up looking at our feet. I crouch, not wanting to stand so obvious, my knees giving out a bit which is odd.

He gasps for the first time. My hand flies to my erection to cup it through my trousers. I can see his penis clearly in front of me steadily hardening once again. I look directly into his face, no longer separated by height. Pupils dilated. Mouth open. Feel soft breath puffing onto my face. I stare into his eyes and slowly lower my body. John grabs my shoulders squeezing them tightly, neither pushing nor pulling. I lower myself onto one knee and he squeezes so hard it hurts. His pelvis is thrusting out subtly and uncontrolled by him, but I’ve already pulled down my pants and trousers enough that my penis is out and exposed. It feels like every cell is engorged with heat. I’m stroking fast and I’m fairly sure he can’t see it but I know he can watch my arm moving. His hands fly to my head, pressing me up against his thigh. I can feel his body. His movements are desperate and strong. He’s not gasping but his breathing is shallow.  
My breaths come in and out much quicker. I can barely register the rubbing because of John’s fingers burning themselves into my scalp. My eyes are closed because it’s all too much. I want John to see. I don’t want John to see. I can’t see John right now but I continue to feel him. My hand continues to move furiously and I don’t think I can go any faster but it’s imperative to go faster because I feel like I can’t be like this any longer. His fingers are caging me to him. His body is a forge. I feel soft leg hairs on my cheek. I want to suck him but I’m afraid. It could ruin everything. I want to kiss him but there’s no way I could get up. I’m surely leaving bruises on his hip.

Choked cries come out of my body that make me shrivel with loathing. Knowing John is seeing this. I bury my head deeper into his body. My hand squeezes on my penis. I rub the skin up and down twice more before I throw back my head and let out an unhealthy breath. Semen dribbles down in a noticeably large quantity. I open my eyes and look down in the middle of my ecstasy to see it splattering John’s legs and the floor. It runs down my hand. I can’t comprehend anything. My head and raised arm drop and I sag against John’s leg. I can barely register him breathing as if he’ll go into cardiac arrest. Suddenly I feel sharp ripples in John’s body. I look up to see his eyes squinted shut and his hand frantically stroking his penis. His fingers dig into my neck almost suffocating me into his leg as he ejaculates, a smaller amount than me I notice, onto the carpet. He continues to ride his orgasm and I watch in fascination.

After a last choked cough he breathes heavily a few times then looks down at me, terror in his eyes, his mouth agape.  
Everything is still warm. I remember the semen on his leg and think it must still be warm too, his legs are quivering slightly.

I look up at him equally terrified.

“Sherlock, I’m so-“ He says on an exhale, the last word catching.

I look down at myself in shock. My hand is still around my shaft. Everything is still warm.

In one moment he lowers himself to grasp me under my arms and lift me up. He leads me to my bathroom, setting me down on the toilet. I watch in bewilderment as he starts the shower. He tests the water with an outstretched hand, then returns to face me. His face is neutral. Gentle. Back again from before. A soldierly face with no hunger.

He undresses me like a doctor. Like I am a child. It reminds me vaguely of Mycroft. His hands are soft and comforting. I do whatever they tell me to. I wonder briefly if I’ve been drugged.

He leads me into the shower, trailing in after me and closing the door behind him. He washes my body first, focusing only on cleaning it. He washes my hair. He turns the shower off and somehow has a towel. He puts me into my bed naked. I usually sleep naked. Does he know that?

“John.”

I should feel dirty, but for some reason everything feels clean. A thought passes that it won’t always be like this. I don’t want to wake up but I’m not asleep. I don’t want to feel waking up. But I don’t want to fall asleep.  
John puts his hand on my forehead and strokes it back. I’m powerless to this man and that is perhaps the single most frightening thing I’ve ever thought. For some reason it makes me want to cry even though I don’t understand tears.

“Go to sleep.” He says, repeating the process.

My loathing vanishes. My mind is blank. I fall astoundingly asleep.


	2. Afterword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boy diggidy dawg that was sure some character development! I wonder what kooky adventures John and Sherlock will get into next!

I stroke his head until he falls asleep which doesn’t take long. 

He had just had a panic attack. 

I want to apologize for my shitty behavior, but I can’t find the strength to. I want to be mad at him for starting this. I guess there's just one thing the man couldn’t calculate or control. 

He was like a child really in these ways. Probably why I needed to stay with him. Why I wanted to protect him and be with him specifically in danger. I cup his face. I want to leave. 

I push a faded kiss on his forehead. He’s sound asleep. I walk out into the living room. There’s come on the floor. I sigh and go get a pail. I haven’t had to clean up like this since I was in my twenties. Sex became a lot more predictable and less frantic. 

Normally this probably would have grossed me out. Cleaning another man’s semen off the floor. I wring the towel out and clean the pail. The floor looks alright, I’ll have to a wait until it dries. I go upstairs and put on a t shirt as well as a pair of boxers and a dressing gown. I know I won’t be able to sleep for a while so I go downstairs and sit in my chair. Everything is ok. Things are just different. We would work this out. 

I look over to Sherlock’s skull on the mantel. 

“It’ll all be alright, right Billy?” 

The skull was punctually silent. 

“Yeah, it’s all fine.” I leaned my head back into the chair, staring at the ceiling. 

“It’s all fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> go big or go home money in the bank $$$


End file.
